The Trikon Deception

by Ben Bova

  O’Donnell did not want to see the picture, but Lance opened his wallet and flipped through its plastic folders until he finally came to a photo that looked like a high school graduation picture.

  “Here she is,” he said, wiping away a stray piece of thread stuck to the plastic cover. The girl had blond hair in a conservative midwestern-style flip and a smile full of milk-white teeth.

  “Her name is Becky. That’s short for Rebecca. What do you think?”

  “She’s nice, Lance,” said O’Donnell, although his own taste ran to women with a hint of the lowlife about them.

  “Do you have a girl back home?”

  “I’m in between girlfriends right now.”

  Lance’s mouth dropped open for a moment; then he guffawed like a donkey. “Is that anything like being in between jobs?”

  “Exactly like it,” said O’Donnell. “Excuse me.”

  He crossed a sorry-looking dance floor and found the men’s room. The tiles smelled of urine and stale disinfectant. The walls were etched with graffiti. The wind whistled through a crack in the frosted glass of a window.

  He chose the cleaner of the two urinals. As he pissed, he thought he saw a spider dangling near his shoulder. But when he turned, the spicier became a small swastika cut into the wall with a knife. The creepy-crawlies had found him.

  All the members of the club were haunted by these creatures that hovered at the periphery of their vision. Some creepy-crawlies resembled insects; others resembled rodents. A few belonged to phyla no biologist would ever dream existed. O’Donnell seemed to have a penchant for spiders.

  The creepy-crawlies were a bad sign. They meant that the protective shell he had built up during the past three years was in danger of cracking. With Hurricane Caroline delaying the launch for as long as five days, O’Donnell faced an eternity with no work to keep him occupied and uptight Lance Muncie bent on male bonding. In between girlfriends. Shit. A girlfriend was the least of his problems.

  O’Donnell took a long look at the swastika before leaving the men’s room. He thought he saw the ends wiggle, but he couldn’t be sure. If the phones are back in operation tonight, I’ll call in at the motorcycle club meeting. A chat with my bike buddies will do me some good.

  Back at the bar, the television screen was blank.

  “Show over?” asked O’Donnell.

  “Don’t know,” said the bartender. “We lost the picture. Jaeckle yelled and Carla Sue screamed. And then we lost the sound.”

  15 AUGUST 1998

  TRIKON STATION

  When placed in orbit, a long skinny object exhibits a peculiar property due to the basic physics of orbital mechanics. Once aligned so that its long axis points toward the center of the Earth, it tends to maintain this attitude. The bottom end (nadir) remains at the bottom and the top end (zenith) remains at the top as the object orbits around the Earth. The forces that cause this phenomenon are called gravity-gradient torques and the object is said to be gravity-gradient stabilized.

  As applied to Trikon Station, this means that the modules will always be oriented so that the Earth is “down,” or “below” the station in relation to its internal architecture.

  Trikon Station orbits about 480 kilometers (300 miles) above the Earth’s surface. Space is not entirely a vacuum at this altitude; there is a faint, thin atmosphere composed principally of atomic oxygen. This highly reactive gas can erode the station’s components. To minimize this erosion and the orbital decay resulting from the slight but real aerodynamic drag, the station’s normal orbital orientation is to fly “edge on,” like the blade of a broad knife flying edge-first.

  However, Trikon Station’s natural tendency to remain gravity gradient stabilized is not enough to keep it properly functioning. The solar panels must always be oriented toward the sun to collect energy. The radiators must be aimed away from the sun to discharge waste heat. As the station orbits the Earth, the positions of the solar panels and radiators must be constantly adjusted for the most efficient orientations.

  The station’s computerized inertial measurement unit (IMU) constantly monitors orientation and the attitude control system (ACS) automatically corrects any instability. Although the station carries gas jet thrusters to make gross changes in its position and to reboost itself to higher orbit when necessary, thrusters are an imprecise and costly method of “fine timing” attitude.

  Trikon Station therefore employs a sophisticated system of control moment gyroscopes (CMGs) to correct and maintain proper orientation. These gyroscopes are mounted in the external truss of the station’s skeleton.

  —Trikon Space Station Orientation Manual

  “We’ll start with the European module,” Tighe said to Jeffries. They were in the connecting tunnel, a slender tube that ran within the station’s central truss and between the rows of modules. The tunnel looked eerie in the half-light of the emergency lamps. Normally bright green and shadowless, the tunnel was now murky and splotched with dark recesses created by rows of storage lockers. Tighe felt like a crab scuttling along the bottom of the ocean.

  Under normal conditions, the station gathered its energy with huge “sails” of solar cells while it flew on the sun side of the Earth. Half of the energy was delivered to the power distribution system for immediate use and half was stored in nickel-cadmium batteries to support the station when it slipped into the Earth’s shadow. The auxiliary power configuration employed by Tighe disconnected all the individual computer terminals from the mainframe, but also had the undesirable side effect of disengaging the station’s utilities from the solar arrays. The NiCad batteries were capable of providing full power for one complete orbit. The emergency configuration lowered the demand to one-sixteenth of full power, which theoretically allowed the crew sixteen orbits—barely a day—to correct whatever problem existed. Tighe hoped the search would not take that long.

  The Trikon laboratory section of the station was composed of The Bakery, the European Lab Module (ELM), and the Japanese Applications and Science Module (“Jasmine”). The three modules were situated adjacent to each other, with ELM in the center. Viewed from space, they were identical except for the markings painted on their white skins. Their internal designs and color schemes were adapted to suit the tastes of the individual nationalities.

  Tighe and Jeffries arrived at ELM to find a technician floating near the entry hatch and shouting in German at someone in Habitation Module 2, at the other end of the connecting tunnel. The tech fell silent at the sight of the commander, but a babel of voices quickly rose within Hab 2. Some demanded to be informed of the problem; others shouted advice for whatever that problem might be. Tighe acknowledged none of them. He pulled himself into ELM.

  The lab was even murkier than the connecting tunnel. The gray floor and salmon ceiling blended into a single, dismal blah. Tighe moved through the shadows cast by the equipment. He passed two technicians, a stocky blonde Swede and a silent dark Spaniard. Each nodded solemnly. Tighe floated toward the end of the module, heading for the bulky figure waiting for him there.

  “What is the meaning of this, Commander Tighe?” The reedy tenor voice floated clearly in the thin air.

  Tighe stopped himself with a handhold. Looming in front of him, in fact blotting out several of the emergency lamps, was the corpulent figure of the chief scientist of the European contingent: Dr. Chakra Ramsanjawi. Unlike the others, who wore regulation coveralls and lab smocks, Ramsanjawi insisted upon wearing a saffron-colored kurta that billowed out from his body, making him resemble a hot-air balloon.

  “Good morning, Doctor,” Tighe said tightly.

  “I repeat, what is the meaning of this power-down, Commander?” said Ramsanjawi. He spoke with an upper-class British accent and just a faint hint of Hindu singsong. His skin was the dead-gray color of ashes. At first it had seemed odd to Tighe that an Indian had been placed in charge of the European lab, but Ramsanjawi was an employee of a Swiss firm, one of the corporations that made up Trikon’s European arm. An
d despite his personal appearance, Ramsanjawi was more English than Big Ben. Or tried to be.

  “The power-down is necessary,” said Tighe.

  “For whom?”

  Ramsanjawi pulled himself toward a cabinet so that he no longer blocked the light from Tighe. Unconsciously Tighe backed away slightly. The Indian exuded a faintly acrid body odor, subtle but unpleasant, that he tried to cover up with cloying cologne. Tighe mentally pictured a cloud of mingled vapors hovering weightlessly around Ramsanjawi’s bloated body and thought, If only he’d stay in one place long enough he might strangle on his own stink.

  “Someone downloaded files from the terminal in the American module,” Tighe said.

  “Is that a problem with the Americans?” said Ramsanjawi. “For shame! I thought we all were dedicated to the common good.”

  “I don’t care what you do among yourselves. I don’t care if you kill each other, just as long as you do it off company property.”

  “Pray tell then, Commander, why are these American files so important?”

  “Because they contain a bug. Whoever tries to upload those files will crash his computer. If that bug gets into the mainframe, this power-down will look like the Fourth of July in comparison.”

  A laugh bubbled in Ramsanjawi’s throat, but Tighe sensed there was precious little humor in it.

  “Commander Tighe, if your power-down had not been so ill-timed your explanation would be merely pathetic. My staff and I have worked for one month”—Ramsanjawi held a stubby finger aloft—“one entire month to produce a microbe with a genetic structure capable of neutralizing seven toxic substances. Not one, not two. Seven! Just before eight o’clock this morning, we began testing the microbe in that pressure tank behind your left shoulder. Don’t bother to look, Commander. This particular microbe can survive only under prescribed conditions of temperature and pressure. Your power-down has caused one month’s work to, how shall we say—evaporate?”

  His dark eyes were glittering now, betraying the fury that his smile was trying to mask.

  “And now you tell me that this bold move was occasioned by a theft of some American computer files.” Ramsanjawi laughed again, and it sounded even thinner than before. “Are you intimating that I would covet the work of the American microbiologists?”

  “Cut the crap, Doctor,” Tighe snapped. “I don’t give a damn what’s in those files except for that bug. I want to know whether anyone in your group stole those files. Because until I find them, the power-down will continue.”

  Ramsanjawi exhaled deeply; again, Tighe backed away.

  “I will question my staff,” said Ramsanjawi, “I assure you that if any one of them is responsible, he—or she—will turn over the files.”

  “You know where to find me,” said Tighe. He started to move toward the hatch.

  “And Commander,” said Ramsanjawi. “I would wager that anyone clever enough to download those files would be too smart to attempt to access them here.”

  “I don’t have the luxury of being a betting man,” said Tighe.

  The next stop was Jasmine. As Tighe and Jeffries traversed the five meters of connecting tunnel between the two entry hatches, they noticed a slight figure speeding toward them in the shadows. They pulled up to a stop. The red-suited figure floated through a band of light. Kurt Jaeckle.

  It always surprised Tighe to realize how physically small Jaeckle really was. Tighe himself had the compact build of the typical fighter pilot. Jaeckle was tiny in comparison, skinny and big-domed, almost like a child. But his voice was powerful and he knew how to use it.

  “Dan, what the hell is going on?” demanded Jaeckle.

  “I ordered everyone to remain where they were,” Tighe said.

  “I didn’t think that applied to me,” said Jaeckle. In the weak light his eyes, set deeply in his skull, were totally black pools, like a mask.

  “It does.”

  “Wait a second, Dan. I’m not one of Trikon’s employees.”

  “You’ll be briefed when I deem it necessary,” said Tighe.

  “That’s not fair. I’m responsible for eleven other people. I have a right to know the nature of this emergency and I demand to take an active role in whatever decision you intend to make.”

  “Everything is under control,” said Tighe. He turned to Jeffries. “Escort Professor Jaeckle back to the Mars module.”

  “I wasn’t in the Mars module. I was in the rumpus room, broadcasting a show.”

  “All right, Jeff, take him to the rumpus room.”

  Jeffries placed his hand on Jaeckle’s shoulder. The professor glared at Tighe but did not resist.

  That’s why Jaeckle’s sore, thought Tighe as he watched the two figures fade in the tunnel. His almighty TV show was interrupted.

  The Japanese contingent waited together just inside the entryway to their module. Each wore a short lab smock neatly belted at the waist and nylon pants with many pouches. The chief scientist, Hisashi Oyamo, greeted Tighe with a bow. Oyamo resembled a downsized sumo wrestler, stubby but wide in every dimension, practically no neck at all. He had a pockmarked complexion and large watery eyes that complemented the opal ring he wore on one pinkie. Ripples of fat ran up the back of his severely crewcut head.

  “We are concerned about your emergency,” he said. “How may we help?”

  “Well, Doctor, it seems we’ve had a theft,” said Tighe. Whenever he talked to any of the Japanese, he found himself exaggerating his natural drawl. He assumed it was an unconscious reaction to their clipped, formal manner of speech. “Seems some enterprising person downloaded a set of files from the computer in the American module. I’m not myself concerned about the guilt or innocence of any particular party. I am concerned about those files because there was a bug written into them that will jam any computer used to access it. If that bug gets into the mainframe from any of the terminals, it’ll shut the whole station down.”

  “So you disconnected the terminals from the mainframe as a precautionary measure,” said Oyamo. “I understand.”

  Tighe waited for more, but Oyamo floated impassively before him.

  “Well, Doctor, you’re the first person who’s grasped the situation without sticking it back in my ear.”

  “You have been to the European module?”

  “I have.”

  “Dr. Ramsanjawi was uncooperative?”

  “Dr. Ramsanjawi was Dr. Ramsanjawi,” Tighe said. “He promised to let me know if anyone on his staff was responsible.”

  “I will consult with my staff and inform you immediately,” said Oyamo. “If you will excuse me.”

  Jeffries rejoined Tighe as the six Japanese huddled in the center of the module. “Jaeckle’s pissed, sir,” said the crewman. “He didn’t appreciate being escorted.”

  “I don’t care what he did or did not appreciate.”

  “He wants to lodge a formal complaint.”

  “With who?”

  “Beats me. Maybe you, sir. He wants to see you after the power is restored.”

  “I guess I’ll see him,” said Tighe. How the hell can you avoid anyone on a space station, he added to himself.

  They watched the meeting of the Japanese. Oyamo seemed to do all of the talking. The others simply listened.

  “What do you think, sir?” asked Jeffries.

  “I think we’re in the wrong module, if you ask me.”

  Oyamo floated back toward them, his face as impassive as a blank wall. But he was unconsciously rubbing one hand across the chest of his crisp white smock.

  The Japanese director deftly slipped his feet into the nearest floor loops and made a slight bow to Tighe.

  “I regret,” said Oyamo, “that I am unable to help you. None of my technicians seems to have the offending computer disk in his possession.”

  Tighe thought that Oyamo was choosing his words as carefully as a lawyer speaking into a tape recorder.

  “The power-down will have to remain in force until I am certain that the bug wil
l not infect our life-support program,” he replied, equally stiffly.

  Oyamo bowed again, nothing more than a dip of his chin, actually. “I understand your concern. However, it would not be advisable to continue the power-down indefinitely, would it?”

  “No,” said Tighe, “Certainly not.”

  “Therefore, perhaps the best that can be hoped for is the assurance that whoever copied the American files will learn of the virus implanted in them and will refrain from attempting to read the files.”

  He’s telling me to go stuff myself, Tighe realized. Very politely, but the message is loud and clear.

  “Furthermore,” continued Oyamo, “even if someone should hand you the offending disk, it would be impossible to know if it actually was the one with the copied data on it. Any attempt to read it would cause precisely the disaster you are trying to forestall, would it not?”

  He’s got me there, Tighe admitted to himself. “Yes,” he replied aloud. “It would.”

  Oyamo’s face betrayed no hint of emotion, not the slightest flicker of triumph or even satisfaction. “Indeed, even if someone did hand you such a disk, there would be no way to know if he had made another copy of it.”

  Tighe smiled grimly. “It can’t be copied without activating the bug.”

  “Ah so. Of course.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Tighe saw Jeffries watching like a spectator at a particularly intense chess game. Behind Oyamo’s thick frame the Japanese technicians huddled together like a bunch of school kids, not daring to move.

  After long moments of silence, Tighe finally said, “I guess you’re right. The best we can hope for is that whoever copied the files won’t be foolish enough to try to download them.”

  “I will do my best to make certain that everyone is made aware of that fact,” said Oyamo.